


Our love is not a tragedy.

by maidenofmicht (lovebesides)



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: Alternate Universe - Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies, Gen, Multi
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-04-10
Updated: 2018-04-11
Packaged: 2019-04-21 04:25:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 10
Words: 7,474
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14276865
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lovebesides/pseuds/maidenofmicht
Summary: In which Elia lives and saves the throne for her daughter, Rhaenys, and everything works out better somehow. Wildly and crazily AU, a collection of scenes.





	1. Edmure

**Author's Note:**

> This fic is mostly an exercise in stretching long unused fic-writing muscles, and is more musing than anything, which is to say it is very loosely plotted. You have been warned!
> 
>  
> 
> (I do actually have a huge overarching plot in place, and I will upload a proper fic at some point, but for now, enjoy and try to make sense of whatever this is, until my muse strikes again!)

**CHAPTER I: EDMURE TULLY, 283 AL**

Edmure loves his brother. The world doesn’t see it. He hopes his brother’s brothers – well, Renly, at least, Stannis didn’t seem to like his older brother Robert very much, but there is the younger – see it, like he sees it. Sees his foster brother for who he truly is.

Not many people can do that. Not many people care to look beyond the external, Edmure has long since learnt this, and seen it even with his eyes here in Riverrun. He sees how often Cat is dismissed for just being pretty, and Lysa for not being pretty enough. Never mind that Cat’s mind is a treasure, as sharp as any sword, and the stories forged by Lysa’s cunning tongue gets him out of trouble on most days. Even for Edmure, sometimes he’s not sure if his father sees _him_ for who he is, beyond being his heir and the expectations (and disappointments) that _that_ brings.

Stannis is different, though. Edmure has known that, since the day he arrived four name days ago. For one thing, Cat trusts him, and on good days, even Lysa doesn’t mind his company, which is more than Edmure can say for most people, because Lysa never seems to like most of them nowadays except Petyr. Edmure trusts Stannis, too, whole-heartedly, with secrets he can’t bear to tell his sisters, and he admires his brother, who is well-read, well-mannered and a good swordsman, winning the hearts of his father and uncle both, in a way Edmure can only hope he’ll earn, one day.

More than that, Edmure loves his brother, because even though he is better than him at so many things, he never disparages or discourages Edmure from achieving mastery of the same. The only standard he truly holds Edmure to, and himself to, is honour. His brother tries so hard to be a good man, and Edmure will try his damndest too, to live up to that. By the Seven, but he will. Edmure had until then only guessed at, but never truly understood just _how_ much he had missed out on without a brother around – a _true_ brother, he does not regard Petyr as one since he’d said he was glad Brandon Stark had died – until he got one, and he’ll be damned if he loses him now.

Stannis has left them, to go back to Storm’s End. Everyday Edmure asks Father for news of him, and none of it is pleasant. Edmure regularly lights candles in the Sept when he goes to pray, usually beside Cat and occasionally Lysa, praying to the Warrior to watch over Stannis and give him victory through the siege, and to the Mother to keep him safe. Stannis had promised him, after all, that when all this was over, he would finally be able to see Stannis’ home.

Edmure fully intends to hold him to that promise.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In this chapter, the major change we have from canon is the fact that Stannis goes to foster at Riverrun, right after the death of his parents. That would be around 278 AL, which would mean by the time he'd have gone back to Storm's End after Aerys demands his brother's head and Robert raises his banners, he would've been in Riverrun for about 4 years. Hopefully this makes this chapter clearer for you. There's actually a brilliant fic about what it would've been like if Stannis were fostered at Riverrun, [here](https://archiveofourown.org/collections/cvgau_verse/works/1025645). Don't forget to check it out!


	2. Elia

**CHAPTER II: ELIA MARTELL, 283 AL**

Elia misses Sunspear, the way the sun shone on her skin, the silks that breathed whisper-soft on her skin, feather-light and airy and nothing like the heavy gowns of reds and blacks that she has worn since she came to this dungeon. Some days she’s sure she might never be able to rub the stench of it off her skin, of those horrible burnings that she is forced to witness and unable to stop. An impotent sun, brought low before a keening dragon. Elia has never felt so powerless in her life.

Some days, when she thinks she might make it through this war, Elia resolves to leave with her son and daughter, and never look back. She is sick of this place, the despair that clings to the walls, the filth that seems to _float_ on the city air and can leave her bent over coughing for hours – _were she home,_ Elia thinks, _she could’ve spent the same amount of time just traversing the streets with a veil over her mouth and not incapacitated_ at all – if not confined to her bed, to be nursed and cooed over as though she were a child. They forget Elia is a _Princess_ , first Dornish and now Targaryen, but a Princess all the same.

They forget, but Elia will not. Too long she had been silent. Too long she had watched and yearned to find her place among a people who did not deserve her, yearned to roar like the mad dragon who was more beast than man.

No longer. When she, with the rest of the world had held her breath as Brandon Stark came to demand his due, when she had waited, for a saviour, a true king, while the men of court cowered and did _nothing_ ; while the knights sworn to protect her and her children stood with their lips sealed. While even Rhaegar failed her there when the people had needed him most to stand up for them, she had found her voice. She remembered the colour of anguish that so often passed behind her eyelids, and she had pleaded for mercy for Brandon Stark and his father. Mercy for her and her children, and the realms that would be plunged into needless war.

 _Later,_ Rhaegar had told her, he would dispense true judgment. The world judged him now. They judged him to be unworthy, and still that was all he would deign to tell her, and now he is dead. Well, she is tired of this place and the dishonourable men that surround it, staining her with their shame. They expect her to smile and curtsey as she has always done, and she will continue to do so, but she will no longer pretend. She is not so gentle a creature as they believe.

 _Unbent. Unbowed. Unbroken._ Elia clings to those words with all her might, and remembers that in the end, all creatures must bow before the sun. Her day will come. If she makes it through this war.

She must believe it.


	3. Stannis

**CHAPTER III: STANNIS BARATHEON, 283 AL**

Stannis has not seen his brother since he was a babe, when Renly had not even learnt how to crawl yet, although, amusingly, he could already walk, on wobbly toes and clinging to the stone pillars. But Renly is now the same age as Edmure was when Stannis had gone to foster at Riverrun, and he remembers how he observed Cat treated him, how Lord Hoster and the Blackfish and Lysa and Petyr took care of him, and he had certainly not failed to notice how Edmure had looked up to him. He can do no worse than Catelyn is doing by her younger siblings. He hopes not.

Granted, these were not the circumstances under which Stannis had hoped to return home to. Guilty as he is to admit it, being away from Storm’s End, and so rarely able to be alone with his thoughts among Lord Hoster Tully’s lively household, Stannis had been able to keep his grief from consuming him. They had been a family who had seen some loss as well, with Minisa Tully having passed when Cat was nine, younger than when Stannis had lost his parents, and he cannot imagine her as anything other than well-beloved, or her loss painless. If he was honest, Stannis had found the eldest Tully girl – Lady of Winterfell, now, for she had wedded Eddard Stark – to be a peculiar comfort to him. She had endured, and emerged as one of the strongest women he has ever the pleasure of knowing.

Stannis knows he might never be able to ease the pain of his parents’ passing, if it is possible to begin with. Talking to her had helped, though. He thought he might be able to move on, as she did. _Family, duty, honour._ Those were not his House’s words, but he thought he understood them well enough.

Renly has not had the same chance. He knows that he has not been around for most of Renly’s young life, and he regrets it for how Renly had been left on his own while his brothers had to learn how to deal with their grief. Stannis is determined he will be as a brother should to his younger now.

He is glad he is home. He had never thought he would miss the thrall of a storm after all it had taken away from him, but how he had tossed and turned in the quiet of Riverrun, where the heaviest of storms lasted no more than three days. He is gladder still when his younger brother rushes to him without reserve to meet him, and Stannis impulsively picks him up in his arms with only a little hesitation, Renly’s weight reminding him too much of Edmure. (Stannis cannot wait for his brother to meet him, whenever the war hopefully ends.) He had written letters to Renly over the course of his fostering, and had trusted Maester Cressen to read it out to his brother. Only recently had Renly started writing back, but of course it is nothing to be compared to the real thing.

His brother is brimming with life. It is almost as if Stannis is back with the Tullys at the rate that Renly talks, treating Stannis almost as a guest as he takes him around Storm’s End, although Stannis hardly minds. He has a lot of duties that need fulfilling – _the armies of the Reach are_ coming – but he has time. He will _make_ time. Renly is of his blood, and Stannis wants his brother to be able to confide in him the way he used to confide in Mother and Father. Besides which, it eases the ache in his heart when he is with his brother, and soothes the guilty undercurrent of longing for Riverrun and the family he has found there.

 _A family he is not sure he may return to_ , Stannis realises later, as day after day passes and the Tyrells begin to camp outside their door, but then, that is not his duty for now. Robert is winning the war at least, for that Stannis is glad. He mislikes his brother greatly, but he is not eager on having to lose another family member to this war.

He knows that the Tullys have allied with Robert and the Starks, thanks to Catelyn’s marriage, and Stannis eventually hears that Lysa too has been wedded to Benjen, Eddard Stark’s younger brother, to Stannis’ surprise. He had been worried for his foster sister before he left, but he sets that aside for now. Stannis is, for all intents and purposes, the Lord of Storm’s End, in all but name, and he will defend it till his last breath.

The days trickle on slowly, and he watches as their supply dwindles, as his brother grows pale and sallow, the same as all of them do. Stannis cannot ease his brother’s ache as he longs to. Renly cries when they finally have to put down the dogs at the kennels, and Stannis has to steel himself to be able to look him in the eye when Renly’s kittens soon meet the same fate. These are the things a man must do, and he has never known such certainty as the fact that he cannot allow his brother to die. Stannis vowed never to serve any gods again, old or new or whatever else, but one night he finds himself breathing just one prayer, a plea of the damned.

The Onion Knight answers that night. Stannis will never pledge himself to a faith again, but he does believe in promises.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Soooo. . . I have no idea how storms in Riverrun actually work, but they're definitely not like Storm's End's ones, so I took a bit of artistic license there.


	4. Jaime

**CHAPTER IV: JAIME LANNISTER, 283 AL**

After so long, by Jaime’s count it is but the work of a few moments. Absurdly enough, his mind strays to the dead Prince as he strikes King Aerys down.

There is no time. His father’s men should be outside the gates of the keep by now – barred, by Jaime’s own hand, which only buys him a few minutes at most. Blood is gleaming bright on Jaime’s sword as he looks at the king he killed and feels nothing, feels numb to the world which goes muted around him. He feels his heart thumping loudly in his chest, hears the blood still roaring in his ears, and everything around him seems grayer and more far away.

 _So this is what it is like to kill a king._ Jaime looks beyond the cooling body on the floor, and in his mind’s eye suddenly thinks of the silver prince lost. He remembers the prince riding away, and he remembers the last promise he ever made to him.

The world comes rushing back then in a roar of sounds and colours, and Jaime sprints out of the throne room, praying he is not too late.

He hears the shouts outside more clearly now, can see men beginning to scale the walls. Jaime is faster though, and here he has the advantage. This is his home ground. Before he knows it, he has slammed open the doors to where Elia Martell stands, proud as a queen, not shaking at all, and he feels another surge of adrenaline in his blood, relieved to see her alive.

“There is no time,” he tells her, shows her rather, offering her his hand which she takes, and together, they fetch Rhaenys from where she has been hidden under the bed. Elia had been her final defence, Jaime takes a moment to notice, and swallows.

He had been so close to just letting them _die_. His hand never leaves Elia Martell’s even as he hoists Princess Rhaenys up with his other, and he leads them in a run all the way back to the throne room. He does not actually have a plan for what to do when they get there, but then he can hardly spare another moment to think, and he lets his instincts overtake him with the sure knowledge that for once, he is doing what is _right_ , trusting Elia to do the thinking for them.

When his father’s men burst through the doors, he is what stands between them, his sword still dripping blood onto the floor, Elia behind him and the Princess seated calmly on the dais.


	5. Ashara

**CHAPTER V: ASHARA DAYNE, 283 AL**

Ashara had never thought she would see Elia Martell again, and yet there she stands, her smile small but genuine as it hadn’t been since Ashara had last seen her, her hair set down for the first time in Ashara’s memory since Elia arrived at the Red Keep in its natural curls, flowing down her back, and Ashara tugs her close and just _breathes_ her in, holding Elia tight to her, her heart calming at last. Although she had heard, from Eddard Stark’s mouth no less, that Elia had lived, she had not quite _believed_.

Elia’s embrace is no less fierce, and just the way she remembers it. Ashara shivers to think that she had been this close to never having experienced it again.

“I am all right, Ashara,” Elia murmurs in her ear, after a moment. Ashara hums in assent, but does not say anything in response, merely savours the feeling of having her in her arms for a little while longer before finally relinquishing her, just in time to have little fingers tug at her dress.

“Lady Ashawa,” Rhaenys grins, putting out her arms to be held as well. Ashara obliges, blowing air onto the side of her neck as she does.

“My little Princess, how I have missed you,” she sighs, tucking Rhaenys close to her, but her gaze is on Elia’s all the while.

“It is Queen, now,” Elia informs her, her smile a bit wider now, and Ashara huffs a laugh. Her smile cannot seem to leave her face either.

“Of course, pardon me, your Grace,” she tells the head of brown hair she carries, placing a kiss on Rhaenys’ forehead before setting her down as well.

Rhaenys claps her hands once, proclaiming a squeal of delight as she runs behind her, and Ashara has no doubt that beyond her line of sight, Arthur is obliging Rhaenys’ request to carry her too.

It is good to be back. Ashara takes another moment to look her dear friend over, noticing the slight dips and falls in her dress that belie just how much weight Elia had lost over the past moons. There are circles under her eyes, mostly concealed by the kohl lining her eyes but Ashara can still tell when she looks close, and her lips are pale, very pale. The resulting anger she feels rising in her blood must redden her cheeks, she knows, but Elia just shakes her head.

“Later,” she mouths at her, and Ashara tamps it down. She knows the time for vengeance will come, and blood will spill, as it must. She can only imagine what Oberyn’s reaction had been.

For now, she takes Elia’s hands in hers, content to be here, in the court of her Princess once more – or Queen Regent, as it were. Things are at last the way they are supposed to be. Ashara supposes there must be _some_ justice in Westeros after all.


	6. Elia

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Rhaegar did not tell Elia everything, but I think he did give her at least a little explanation for why he did what he did. I assume he told her why he named Rhaenys and Aegon such after all, although for this story I'm choosing to believe he did not tell her about the Prince Who Was Promised. Whatever he did say doesn't excuse him, and I am not one to forgive him, but luckily for Rhaegar Elia is a little more forgiving than I am.

**CHAPTER VI: ELIA MARTELL, 283 AL**

The first time she saw Ned Stark, she was relieved for he had bowed the knee once he beheld them, before her and before Rhaenys, and Elia had sent a silent prayer of thanks to the Seven that he was the face of the Rebellion who had come. She was safe, her children were safe, and the war was over.

The next time she sees him, Ned Stark comes to her with a babe in his arms, the child, he declares, of his sister and Rhaegar. He does not seem so inclined to kneel to her then, his jaw tight, and she suspects it is only his honour that is keeping him in the hall as the men and ladies of the court murmur in low voices around him. He is the only leader of the usurpers that she has spared – Robert Baratheon had managed to flee to the Free Cities, but Jon Arryn had been sent to the Wall.

Elia takes the boy in her arms. The child is a tiny thing, on first glance so like a Stark, from the little black tufts of hair on his head to the shape of his nose and chin, it seems he has been untouched by the dragon. But Elia knows what to look for, and besides, his features will grow more defined in the years to come. All the same, he is clearly male, and no Visenya. Elia thanks the Maiden all over again for her mercy for that. She can hardly forget the last few days of the war, and the words her husband had spouted when she had asked him why. He had spoken as though half-mad then, his eyes alight with his precious prophecy. Elia had feared him for the first time. Now, there will be no stain on the babe. His mother will carry the burden heavily enough.

They had agreed, the new Lord Stark and her before she had sent him to the Tower, that he could take his sister back North, and no harm would come to them, so long as they would stay there. She had half-hoped there would be no babe then. Now that the little Prince is before her, she must tread carefully.

She already knows he will not let her keep the babe, and neither would Lyanna Stark. If they were to have their way, little Jon will be raised in the North, except what place would a dragon have so far from the Iron Throne?

They are at her mercy. Still, Elia meets Lyanna Stark’s defiant gaze, the girl almost snarling at her, and Elia thinks maybe they can settle for a compromise, for the family that had lost the most in the war aside from the Throne’s. If she must have one, then Elia would prefer both of the biggest scandals arising from the Rebellion together. In the end, she concedes, with a blessing of her own; Ser Jaime is, though as good as stripped of his white cloak, still a lordly knight. She has had him pardoned besides, although she cannot allow him to serve her and Rhaenys in the same capacity. Elia bids him accompany Ned Stark back to Winterfell, to be Prince Jon’s new sworn sword.

 _Let the Kingslayer’s blade be enough to keep them in line._ When Ned Stark protests, she reminds him there was no duty Ser Jaime had failed, save the one he had been forced to abandon, for a greater cause.

“For a man that had saved the entire city and the life of their future Queen at the cost of his honour and even possibly his life, what knight could be more suited?” she asks him. He surrenders to her then.


	7. Jaime

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This. . . is probably my longest chapter yet. I really enjoyed writing this.

**CHAPTER VII: JAIME LANNISTER, 283 AL**

Jaime meets Ser Arthur’s gaze to find most of the things he expects to see and nothing at all. Does one good thing cancel out a bad? Jaime doesn’t know, but he hopes desperately that it might be the case. He knows not what he will do if even Ser Arthur turns his back on him.

The Queen is sending him North. To protect the young half-blood Prince, she commands him, and Jaime only understands as well as Ned Stark does, which is to say, not much beyond the fact that he has no wish to return to Casterly Rock, to a responsibility he never cared to take for his own, and that he is as good as stripped of his white cloak even if for some reason, Queen Elia does not proclaim it as such. People already call him the _Kingslayer_ , and everywhere he goes people look, whether in scorn or admiration or both.

Jaime knows what he deserves. He would never have let the Mad King raze the city to the ground, and he’d fought until the last possible second to ensure it was so. It was not as if he had wanted to kill his king, he had tried, _by the gods_ , but he had tried, the Seven must know, to stand by his duty and his honour even when all his sworn brothers had gone and he alone was left to guard the city, the king, even if it meant guarding the king from himself. He hates to imagine what might have happened if he had not been able to save Elia and her children. He still has nightmares about it, right up until the day he leaves the crow’s nest for good.

And even after.

Ser Arthur had been on a different mission with the Lord Commander and Ser Oswell Whent. They were supposed to have been guarding Lyanna Stark, and guard her they did; she shocked the whole court with her appearance. But they had almost lost her in childbirth, Jaime has heard. A stroke of the gods, they said, to have saved her and the young Prince too, Jon – many have already noted the unusual name, but Lyanna Stark had named him so, claimed him for her own, and it had fit, in many ways, the Prince Jon Targaryen.

Ser Arthur had done what needed to be done, and so had Jaime. Before he leaves, he needs to make Ser Arthur see that, not least because, apart from the Queen, nobody had yet asked him for an explanation for his actions. They have all, in one great accord, decided to let his actions speak for themselves, and so he is a traitor of the worst order and a saviour all at once, a dishonourable fool and a duty bound knight. Jaime has lived through the very worst of the Mad King’s reign, but he does not have the protection of the crown, much as it could easily have been his for the taking. Jaime has always been meant to serve, and serve he did, and still has.

Cersei is far and away still in Casterly Rock, _preparing_ , Jaime thinks with no small amount of bitterness, to wed to the new Lord of Storm’s End. Tyrion is just as out of reach. And much as he adores the little queen to be, he can hardly unburden to her nor does he have the privilege of doing so to the Queen. Moreover, although he has told all of his tale, or most of it, the Lords who had been present had indeed not seemed much moved.

Ser Arthur had not been there. How much must he know? In his eyes, Jaime sees sorrow, shock, anger, grief. . . but Ser Arthur has not yet turned him away. Nor has he refused Jaime’s request of one final spar.

They meet in the castle yard, and they use wooden swords. Jaime unleashes all his anger and pain in the ferocity of his blows, and still he is doing all he can to keep up, for Ser Arthur is not holding back either, going after Jaime’s weak points immediately and Jaime barely dances away. His arms and legs burn from the fight, his muscles singing, and the sun descends slowly on them as they parry, their swords clashing with every thrust.

At last, Jaime has Ser Arthur down on the ground, having spotted an opening a second before the opportunity presented itself, and his sword point presses on Ser Arthur’s neck. “Yield,” Jaime says.

Ser Arthur nods. Jaime lets him get up slowly, his body tensing for a trick even as he tells himself that this is a man who would never resort to one. And he doesn’t. He just keeps looking steadily at Jaime, not saying a word. His hair is plastered to his forehead with sweat, and he has never looked more untouchable.

Jaime tries not to flinch. Finally, Ser Arthur sighs.

“You have no need to explain yourself to me, Jaime.”

Jaime straightens immediately. “Why not?”

“You betrayed and murdered your King. At the same time, you have saved the lives of everyone in King’s Landing, including the Queen’s. The Queen has pardoned you. And while I cannot condone your actions, it is no longer my place to judge.”

Ser Arthur lays a hand on his shoulder, and Jaime cannot deign to catch his breath, his eyes mysteriously wet. Ser Arthur is regarding him with some gentleness the likes of which Jaime had not often seen, not since he has had to look up at him, and now they are of an equal height with one another.

He shakes his shoulder minutely, and Jaime has to breathe, then, and it rattles in his chest. “Jaime,” he tells him, “we have all done things we are not proud of in this war. I have followed a prince for his promises, and sworn to protect all he holds dear, and he is dead. But I have acted in service instead to our future queen, and so have you. The blood of King Aerys will always be on your head, but you are young yet. You have the rest of your life to atone.”

His voice softens then, so soft Jaime has to lean in slightly to hear it, the hand still on his shoulder tightening. “And so do I,” Ser Arthur says.

* * *

Jaime has not lived his life by any stringent code of honour, not like Ned Stark, or Ser Arthur, or even Cersei’s husband to be, whom he had met only the once when he had been at Riverrun. He has not considered either, what it must do to such men, when their honour must clash so terribly with the reality of what needs to be done. Ser Arthur crumbles before him, only a deep, terrible pain to be found, unhidden, when Jaime looks upon him. _Lyanna Stark,_ Ser Arthur told court, _had married Rhaegar, and so their son was a legitimate Targaryen_ , but he had not looked pleased in the telling. He had let no emotion show at all.

Now he tells Jaime how Lyanna Stark had not known what awaited her. Not in many words, but as brief an account as he can manage, and Jaime realises that Ser Arthur has had, perhaps aside from his sister, no one to unburden this to either. _The Kingsguard keep their king's secrets._ How can he tell anyone that the prince he had loved and trusted, could do such a thing as this? He must regard Jaime as a sworn brother still, to share it with Jaime and give him some comfort of his own as well.

“I know Prince Rhaegar has a purpose, to everything he does, but when he died at the Trident, all hope seemed lost. I would have died with our brothers guarding that tower, and still to all the world, we’d have lost all our honour, and they would be right. We would never have lived to serve a usurper. But you put Rhaenys on the throne. Now is a time for second chances. Serve well the duty Queen Elia has given. Honour the cloak you wear. In time, you will regain all the respect you deserve.”

Jaime does not weep when Ser Arthur clasps him to him, but it is a close thing. Several more hands land on his shoulders, and Jaime swerves his head slightly to see Ser Gerold and Ser Oswell, and they nod at him.

“You have done what needs to be done, boy,” Ser Gerold says. “It is shameful, but Arthur has the right of it. Serve the new queen and the realm better than you have served, and restore the honour of your white cloak.”

Jaime’s throat is suspiciously tight and he fears opening his mouth lest he release a sob, but for a moment, ensconced in the embrace of his brothers it seems, for just that moment, the world and he are at peace.


	8. Elia

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ashara's little girl lives! And I've chosen to name her Cydra, after the brilliant reimagining [here](%E2%80%9DLINK) of what happens when Rhaegar takes the throne. You will notice that there are other similarities to that fic as well, such as the fact that Ashara marries the same man, for pretty much the same reasons that, since they are not known to Elia, will not be mentioned. GO READ THAT GOOD FIC, it be good I promises ye.

**CHAPTER VIII: ELIA MARTELL, 283 AL**

“Ashara, are you sure?” she can’t help but ask, just once more.

It had just been so _sudden_. Every day it seems a new Lord comes to court to woo her hand. Every day a parade of suitors march through the Red Keep like prized stallions, gifting precious wines and rare meats, glass and lace and fine silk. Elia does naught but smile, and it satisfies them for a while; she distributes her presents among her household, and when it is too much, has it given to the smallfolk that surround the keep.

“It is simply not done, your Grace,” they say – though they acknowledge her it is not enough, they still think she is a pawn in their games –, “there has never been a queen ruler on the throne.”

 _There is now_ , she wants to shout.

They charm, and they cajole, but everyone knows she saves the throne for her daughter. The die had already been cast, since her little three year old looked down from her seat of swords, and got nary a scratch.

She does not intend to ever marry again. She will not let the realms tear themselves apart as they almost did, trying to crown one king, and then another and lost them both, one to madness and another to exile. Elia knows what she herself longs for, but now is the time for reconciliation. She will see no more bloodshed.

“My Lords,” she says, “would you not wish for peace?”

Still they clamour like the roosters they are, proud as cocks the lot of them, with none of the steel she looks for, when she deigns to notice them. To hear that Ashara is to be _wedded_ shocks her system as little other news have.

She knows why, of course, as well as she knows her friend. Little Cydra Sand will be raised in court, as open to derision and mockery as any bastard will, even more so when the twittering chits discover who her father was, and remember his grisly end, and so Ashara seeks to guard her, and guard herself too from the same. Elia would not for all the world do anything to remove Ashara from her side, and she appreciates her friend’s effort to stay near. Yet she cannot fathom how of all the Lords, it will be _Jon Connington_ that Ashara wishes to marry. The same man who despises Elia’s every breath, who, it seems, has nothing in common with Ashara specifically or the Dornish in general that would warrant him accepting her hand in marriage. Elia cannot begin to understand it.

But Ashara merely sighs. “Yes, Elia, I am sure.”

It seems to be the end of the conversation then, but Elia will not let it go. It is not like Ashara to be so tight-lipped, and she will ask, again, in future, by which time she hopes the answer will be less of a puzzle to her than it doubtless must be now.


	9. Lysa

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Soooo Lysa will not be married to an old man after all, mainly because Jon Arryn will be spending his time at the Wall, and sorry, but she is well rid of you and your infertile seeds. I find Lysa such an interesting character because I feel I have such a potential to be her in temperament, were I ever to be in her situation. She was such a romantic, and then shit went down and she got sold off to an old cod with no regard for her declining mental health and I just, idk. She was given too raw a deal in canon, imo.

**CHAPTER IX: LYSA TULLY, 283 AL**

It is a surprise to everyone, including Lysa herself, that she takes well to the cold. She was never the fish that Cat was, swimming for hours and hours and hours, instead preferring to sunbathe along the sides of the rivers that circled Riverrun. Lysa, nonetheless, finds the heated walls of Winterfell adequate, and she is not-so-secretly grateful for this one aspect in which she is better than her sister. Especially because, as the case so happens, her and Benjen’s holdfast is supposedly even further up North, within a hundred leagues of the Gift near the Wall. Benjen promises her that, once the keep has been sufficiently refurbished, they can move as soon as possible. Mayhaps he senses that Lysa is unhappy in Winterfell. She was never one to expend much effort on hiding her emotions.

At the very least, the holdfast in Queenscrown will be all her own, not her father’s or Cat’s or anyone else’s. She can take comfort in that. In Winterfell, it is all too stark that neither she nor Cat belong, with their heavy furs and Southern accents and refined poise. Even here she is in Cat’s shadow. She had wanted something simple, she’d thought, not even to be the Lady of a great keep, she had no expectations for that, just to be with the boy she loved, and instead she is to be tied to a Northern savage for life.

(Benjen is younger even than her, without all that scruff that Northerners are famous for leaving untamed, but Lysa has no doubt that his beard will soon come once his voice deepens sufficiently. His voice. Seven hells, her father has not even had the decency to wed her to a _man_.)

She resents it all, and resents him the most. Mayhaps he may think he hides his pain, but Lysa can see it. How can she not, when it is all too similar to what she feels herself? Some days, _most days_ if she were to be honest with herself, she can hardly stand to talk to him. Why bother with the fake pleasantries, showing her around a castle that’s not to be hers anyway, speaking with an air of authority as though he has any grand tales to tell when he has not even travelled anywhere, trying to _know_ her? He does not seem to recognise, and she will not deign to enlighten him, that both of them _hurt_ , deep inside them, grief and guilt over loss of lives that can never be regained, which they both will carry the weight of for the rest of their lives. She does not know what he could possibly be troubled over, what great wrong he thinks he could’ve righted, nor does she care. Most likely it is that he pities her, she thinks, that he knows her shame, and she snarls at the thought.

She will be no one’s burden. Lysa did not escape her father to be suffocated once more by a mere _boy_ who thought he knew better than she. She had had enough of that at Riverrun, enough of feeling second-best. She hopes, for once, that Cat’s liveliness will distract him from her. She has enough on her mind, the sorrow that aches in her breastbone still oft threatening to overwhelm her, for the little boy or girl only she will mourn, and she has no room for another in her heart. Sometimes she cannot even bear to look upon Cat’s firstborn, little Robb, without feeling the familiar swell of resentment that, as in all things, her father will grant Cat whatever she desires, while Lysa suffers solitary and alone.

She does not know how she can ever be happy in this life. Doubtless this is just another of Father’s punishments for her, for staining his great name so. She does not know how she will be able to bear Benjen either, and with the Northern retinue containing her brother-in-law, her sister-in-law _and_ her nephew due to arrive any day soon, Lysa thinks Winterfell will soon be nigh unbearable.


	10. Lyanna

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For the full impact of emotions, check out this [fic](https://archiveofourown.org/works/359333) first. It will convert you to Lyanna/Brandon I promise you, and it's what inspired this chapter.

**CHAPTER X: LYANNA STARK, 284 AL**

She is back in Winterfell, its Lady once more, as she’d always said, as Brandon had promised, except Brandon wasn’t at Winterfell. Brandon was _dead_ , and Lyanna is still here. And so is Jon.

It is hardly enough. Her wolf’s blood leaves her restless, and she ends up riding Black Aly for days on end after she’s recovered, around and about the grounds at Winterfell, always a guard with her now. There is no one more who will come after her. No one more who will _dare_. Instead, it is she they fear will leave. And truly, many times she had dreamt of this, escaping on her beautiful mare, far away from any man’s clutches, but always with an intention to return _home_. How could they believe she’d ever leave it again?

Brandon is here. His _bones_ lie here. She goes down to the crypts only once, to see how much his statue retained his likeness, but there is nothing there that is him, of course there isn’t. He’s dead, and she cannot even avenge him, because there’s no one’s blood she can spill. No one’s blood that she wants to.

(She had talked to Jaime Lannister only once before, during their journey up from King’s Landing. She’d told him she regretted not being there to watch the monster bleed. _Did he cower?_ she’d wanted to ask. _Did he fear?_ All men must fear death. It was only the presence of her brother beside her that had stayed her tongue.)

Brandon had come for her and died. Sometimes his presence is still so tangible a thing, his breath over her hair, his embrace. Lyanna loves her son with a ferocity that steals her breath away, her perfect little wolf cub, but how she wishes he truly were. If only he was a true Northern wolf, not one forced from her. She would never ever love him less, but she would always weep for the decisions that had been made that led her here.

Winterfell can never be the same again. For one thing, there is a lion in their midst. He is supposed to be her son’s protector, but she does not know how he expects her to trust him. She has not left him alone with her son even once. Still, she comes to Jaime Lannister two passings of the moon’s turn after they’ve all settled back home, and asks him to teach her the sword. _I am the mother of a dragon_ , she forestalls any protest he might have, _and you know how easy it is to slay one. Would you dare deny me my own protection?_

He needs little cajoling, she sees. There are not many willing in Winterfell to cross swords with the _Kingslayer_. They agree to meet everyday in the yard to train. Lyanna dares her brother to stop her and press the matter closed, but Ned is silent. Mayhaps he sees the need to do so as well as she. Her brother has always been good at that.

Lyanna fetches a wooden sword, the same as her brothers had once used, as Brandon had once used, and she too, the few times she had stolen away with him or Benjen to learn. From the start, the lion cub is tougher on her than Brandon ever was. Brandon loved her, but he had respected Father’s wishes, and eventually she had asked Benjen to help her rather than him. If only Father could see her now.

 _I have brought you a prize greater than a stag, Father_ , Lyanna imagines telling him, trying to determine the look that would’ve been on his face. _I have brought you the blood of a dragon. Have I pleased you now?_

Lyanna trains, sweating in the yard while Ser Rodrik and Jory stand by, simply watching while Ser Jaime effortlessly dodges her blows, his white cloak set aside. Her Jon is with Ned’s son in their rooms, watched over by Ned’s Southron bride. Already the two boys are inseparable, joined at the hip like true brothers. Admittedly, Catelyn is more of a mother than Lyanna is behaving at this moment, but then again _Cat_ did not just have a war fought in her name. Lyanna refuses to take any chances.

She had failed to protect her father and Brandon, she will not fail her son as well. She will not die to leave her son an orphan, not when she clearly has some means of arming herself. She wonders if Brandon would be proud of her, if he saw her now. She misses him so much it physically aches, causing a heaviness in her bones, a snarling rage in her steps. She misses their hours in the godswood the most, the hours they spent chasing each other, playing. Holding each other close, and he telling her that he loved her best. And he did.

He’d died for her. Now she must live, for him. _I named my son for you, did you know?_ She wants to tell him. _I named him after your favourite story, when we used to race to Old Nan for them._

In days past, Old Nan would regale her with stories of dutiful girls, who didn’t ride horses, or drew swords, or went to war. She saved the best tales for Brandon though, and so Lyanna made sure her brother was with her whenever they went to visit her. When Lyanna makes her way up to Old Nan again, Old Nan tells her different stories. Girls who would never be named, as much as they were saviours, like the daughter of Brandon the Daughterless, or girls who were given away, like the daughter of the last Marsh King.

It had been King Jon’s son the last daughter of the Marsh King had married. Ladies do not always get what they desire, Lyanna knows, or whom they desire. Nor are they often acknowledged for their deeds. She cannot imagine the weight of it, having to give up her whole kingdom and watch it be swallowed up while she married her conqueror and her father’s slayer and lived the rest of her life by his side.

She knows it could’ve easily been her situation, or at least alike to it. If Rhaegar had lived. If Rhaegar had won. Instead he is dead, and Robert is gone, and Elia is on the throne, and Elia sent her home. Lyanna can never be thankful enough for that.

Brandon will not come back. Neither will her father. She had loathed and loved her father in equal measure when he had been alive, but now that space in her heart has been swallowed up by pain. _Will it ever stop hurting?_ She asks Old Nan desperately, and the old lady’s eyes upon her are sad.

 _No_ , Old Nan says, _but there are still joys to be begotten in this life as well._ Lyanna resolves to take every opportunity with both hands, for herself and for her son.

Her beautiful, beautiful son. Jon, she named him, for though he must be Targaryen he was hers, never theirs, never Rhaegar’s or his wretched ilk’s, and so Jon is what the world will know him by. Her son, a boy with the blood of the North in his veins, in his eyes and face. Jon, not a dragon’s name, but a dragon’s bane, the wolf of fire but wholly hers, and she will not let anything or anyone take him from her, if she has to tear down the world to do it.

She will not let anyone harm whom she loves again. She is home, and she will defend it. She has the blood of wolves in her veins.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So Jon keeps his name. This will definitely have political ramifications later, considering that he is already an anomaly by being raised in the North while still keeping his Targaryen ancestry acknowledged. On a happier aside, he grows up with his mother now, so he also may grow up with a healthy love for horses.


End file.
